The playground fell silent. Thin trails of smoke from the would-be captors wafted on the morning breeze. The sedans did not transform, for which Violet was grateful. She felt like she should be breathing hard, but her metal chest neither rose nor fell. It was a little disappointing.

Looking down at her friend, she felt another tinge of disappointment. Resentment came next, though it was washed away in a flood of dutiful programming. Serve the mistress. Protect the mistress. Save the mistress. Annoying as it was, Violet couldn’t help but snicker that Rae had used the term ‘mistress’, their inside joke at school, something to make the boys raise an eyebrow.

“I suppose I have to get you home now,” she said to her unconscious friend, then chimed in with the programming in a sing-song voice, “Save the mistress. Protect the mistress. Blah, blah, blah.”

The ride back was quiet with Rae belted in place and slumped over. Violet used the time to refresh herself on the fine art of programming.